Wild
by gbbluemonday
Summary: What was supposed to be a routine maintenance detail becomes complicated when an enemy drone downs their plane, leaving Tony and Natasha stranded in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness. Their tech gone, they search for a way home while the remaining Avengers look for the source of a threat of biological warfare . Takes place between Avengers and IM3.
1. Chapter 1

1.

Natasha is dressed as Natalie for the first time in over a year. There hasn't been much need for the too-tight pencil skirt and the itchy blouses since she had revealed herself to Stark, and even less since Pepper had found out exactly who she was. She is surprised, being back in the clothes, just how uncomfortable they are. The skin-tight suit in which she prefers to work is actually surprisingly comfortable, made out of a weather-smart, moisture-wicking polymer designed by SHIELD's research and development team, but unfortunately she doesn't get to wear that suit as often as she would like. It's mostly a rotation of low-cut shirts and high-cut skirts when she's undercover, but for some reason being back in Stark's Miami office in these particular clothes makes her want to rip them off as she stands in the hallway, waiting for the new secretary, a surly girl she doesn't recognize, to confirm her security clearance.

Maybe it's not the clothes. Maybe it's what's behind those tall double doors the secretary is blocking, as if ready to physically assault Natasha-Natalie-should she attempt to pass before she is granted the proper clearance.

Part of Natasha wishes the girl would try.

"I'm sure it will just be a moment," the girl says, giving Natasha a simpering smile full of distaste. The girl's eyes sweep over Natasha's figure with unconcealed jealousy. She is not unattractive herself, though a little plain. Natasha guesses it was Pepper who hired this one, not Stark.

"Maybe you could just call Mr. Stark directly," she says. "He is in his office, isn't he?"

The girl barely conceals a sneer. She thinks Natasha is being bold, demanding an unannounced visit with the great Tony Stark. Natasha wishes she could point out how inane this is, since Stark has become little more than the nominal head of the company, a title he only retains as majority shareholder. Neither Natasha nor anyone else at SHIELD has any illusion that Pepper is, as always, running the company. Nor do they have any issue with this. Stark has bigger issues to deal with. Which is why Natasha is here.

"Mr. Stark is not entirely accustomed to having drop-in appointments," the girl says.

"I'm well aware," Natasha says, losing her cool ever so slightly. "I've known Mr. Stark for over two years."

The girl purses her lips and does not reply.

There is a brief awkward pause, and then the intercom on the girl's desk buzzes.

"Becca, please let Miss Rushman through."

That's Pepper's voice. She sounds exasperated. Natasha looks at the girl, Becca, and takes a little pleasure in the sour look on her face as she steps aside and allows Natasha to push through the doors to the CEO's office.

Inside not much has changed. The desk is decorated with Pepper's accoutrements, and the television, as usual, is projecting the latest news on Stark industry's stocks and other related stories. In the corner of one screen is a small feed regarding Iron Man, but since New York things have been quiet enough that this is clearly not a priority.

Stark is sitting at Pepper's desk, hunched over the computer. He does not look up as the door swings shut behind her. Pepper, on the other hand, turns off her tablet and rises from the chair she was occupying in the corner and walks over to shake Natasha's hand.

"Natasha," she says, "I'm so sorry about the wait. I'll make sure Becca has your information so this doesn't happen again."

Pepper is smiling politely, but Natasha senses the tenseness under her facial features, an unspoken question lingering underneath. _Where are you taking him this time, and will he be coming back?_

"It's Natalie, actually," Natasha says, returning the smile. "And with any luck this will be my last visit for a while."

"Supervillains losing their stamina, or am I just fired?" Stark finally looks up from the computer. "Please tell me it's the latter."

"Mr. Stark." Natasha's mouth twitches into a smile despite her best efforts to remain stern. It's always a relief to see Stark in one piece. Even when he's not on a mission, he has a way of getting himself into dangerous situations, and despite their numerous differences, Natasha has no desire to see him unwhole.

"Neither, at least not this time," she says. "There's been a problem with the Alaskan unit. SHIELD is losing power all over the country."

This gains Stark's attention. He perks up, sitting up straight and passing a hand over his face, as if he is trying to smooth out the wrinkles that, despite being minimal for a man his age, are beginning to show more prominently.

The Alaska program has been Stark's baby for the past six months, as well as the only lifeline he and SHIELD have maintained steadily since New York. While the others—herself and Barton and Steve, specifically-have had smaller missions and espionage to deal with, Stark and Banner have maintained their connection to the organization through research and technology. The Alaskan power plant is an experiment in the potential of arc reactor technology. The plant is directly connected to the same reactor powering Stark tower in New York through a series of underwater and transcontinental power lines, which transfer energy to the plant, chosen specifically for its remote location. The power is consolidated at the plant and then transferred to secondary locations all over the country—specifically to SHIELD's seven secret headquarter locations. Natasha doesn't understand most of the technical details, but she knows that SHIELD has slowly been phasing out other power sources in favor of Stark's, which is cleaner, safer, cheaper, and near impossible to trace back to the source.

Stark insists that SHIELD is acting as his test dummy for potential large-scale distribution of power, but Natasha is certain his attachment to the project is partly out of gratefulness for his continued connection with the organization.

"Why hadn't I heard of this before now?" Stark says, rounding the desk.

"I'll get us some coffee, shall I?" Pepper says. Natasha nods, and Pepper excuses herself, no doubt somewhat regretfully. Pepper likes to be in the know about where Stark is and what he is doing, but it is a testament to her professionalism and respect for the work they do that she does not insist on prying. Then again, Stark will likely tell her everything as soon as Natasha is out of the room, but she appreciates the privacy nonetheless.

"Part of our agreement was that SHIELD would be in charge of maintenance," she says as soon as Pepper is gone. "We only became aware of a problem two days ago, when one of our eastern locations began to lose power."

"What's the performance level now?"

"Zero. Luckily we have backup resources, but that doesn't mean we don't want to get to the bottom of this. We haven't been able to get any technicians up there because of the weather, either."

Stark raises an eyebrow. "None?"

"You're the one who designed it to be self-operational."

"So let me guess," Stark says, crossing back to the desk and turning the computer screen around so that it is facing them both. He types rapidly, and a series of blueprints pop up all over the screen. "You're here for your money back. Tell Fury I don't do refunds."

"Not quite."

He sighs. "You know, I was really starting to enjoy the quiet life."

She snorts. "No, you weren't."

"No I wasn't," he agrees. "So what is Fury thinking? I'll just pop up there this afternoon, badabing badaboom, back by supper. Do you want to join us? Pepper and I were going to try the new seafood place on the corner. They're supposed to have a calamari platter the size of your head. Size of my head, actually. Has anyone ever told you, you have a very small—ah—head."

"I don't eat fried food, Mr. Stark," she says. "And I'm afraid it's not quite that simple. We're guessing the transformers were taken down by a spring storm that blew through that area last week, but we have no way of knowing for sure until we get there."

"Damn. Pepper doesn't like it either."

"Since we always prefer caution," she presses on, although she can tell Stark is losing interest, disheartened by the caution she is trying to espouse, "we are going to approach this as if it is the product of foul play. We are going as covertly as possible, via your private jet, and I will be accompanying you through all stages of the mission."

Tony claps his hand together and flips the computer back to its original position. He takes two long strides and throws himself back into the desk chair.

"Sorry Princess," he says. "Turns out I'm working on some very important software for the company—my company, that is, I don't know if you've heard of it. We're actually fairly successful, provide a lot of services to a lot of people—"

"Stark…"

"—and while I appreciate your customer complaints, I'm afraid I won't be able to address them until two—three—maybe four days, weeks even. When are you out of town?"

"I'm going to be out of town tonight, in fact."

"Perfect! I just remembered I have tonight free. So sad we missed each other."

"I'm going to be out of town tonight, with you, in a private jet on our way to Alaska."

"Whoops. Did I say I was free? I meant—"

"He's free."

Pepper has reappeared at the door, the secretary trailing behind her with a pot of coffee and three cups. She sets them down on the coffee table and Pepper waves her away, but not before she can shoot a sneering glance in Natasha's direction.

"Uh, Pepper, I think you're forgetting our very important plans to—"

"I hate calamari."

"I am installing software, without which the entire company may—"

"You've been playing Angry Birds for the past hour. You're free." Pepper turns to Natasha as Tony pouts. "I'm guessing since he's so reluctant to do whatever it is you're requesting that it is not particularly dangerous?"

"Routine maintenance," Natasha says. "I'm going to be accompanying him the entire time."

Stark groans in the background. "I work better on my own."

"That is not consistent with any of our records, Mr. Stark," Natasha says. "And besides, it's an order." She returns her attention to Pepper. "We'd like to leave within the hour, if that's possible."

Pepper nods, her relief visible. "I'll call our pilot and have the plane ready."

Tony shoots her a look full of daggers, but makes no further objections. He turns to Natasha.

"I suppose you're happy now. Once again, SHIELD has ruined my date night. What am I going to have for dinner, if not head-sized calamari?"

JARVIS chimes in, and if she did not possess such carefully trained nerves, Natasha may have jumped, having forgotten that the AI was installed in the building.

"Shall I have the restaurant send something ahead to the plane, sir?"

Stark holds up a finger. "JARVIS, do me a favor and don't interrupt me when I'm in a squid-induced rage—or any type of rage, for that matter."

"Very good sir," says JARVIS. "I'll reserve my interjections for low-stress situations from now on, shall I?"

Natasha doesn't bother to control her impulse to smile as Stark shoots the nearest speaker a look which almost suggests that he did not, in fact, program JARVIS of his own free will. He is still glaring when she turns to the door.

"Wheels up in an hour, Stark," she says. "I'll see you on the runway."


	2. Chapter 2

2.

The Alaskan unit is located in one of the more remote forests of the Alaskan wilderness, so when Stark dons his suit and fires up the repulsors to head out and check the transformers, Natasha allows him to do so with a stern warning to remain in constant radio contact and to return for backup should he encounter anything suspicious. There are a few tense moments when he arrives at the unit as he inspects the transformers during which she is unsure if she will have to call in emergency backups—probably Steve, since Doctor Banner is in Canada conducting genetic research courtesy of SHIELD's government funding and Thor is gods know where, and because the surrounding terrain was specifically chosen to be extremely difficult to access without at least a modicum of superhero ability—but when Stark finishes his rounds, his response is typically blithe.

"Unless SHIELD has something against conifers, I don't think there's anything to worry about here Romanoff," he says. "Branches knocked out two of the receivers. I can fix them, but I'm going to have to charge overtime."

Natasha lets out a little sigh of relief as she clicks into the com from her seat in the SHIELD-issued Range Rover at the end of the access road. "You'll have to talk to billing about that, Stark. Be careful and get it done."

Removing the debris from the transformers takes just over an hour, and once they are certain that power is returning to SHIELD around the country, Natasha gives the go-ahead for them to return to the plane. On the ride back to the airstrip Stark goes on about the need for android maintenance at the sight. She remains stoic when he suggests she and Hawkeye take up the task, but can't help rolling her eyes when he redacts, saying that "SHIELD probably wants something a little more humanoid" maintaining the transformers.

"I don't see why professionalism bothers you," she says. "You've never had a problem completely disregarding it before."

"Fair point. Maybe it doesn't bother me. Maybe I would just like to see you let your hair down every once in a while."

"I bet you would," she says. But they both smile, and it is with some relief that Natasha notes that Stark looks more relaxed around her than he has before when he turns his attention to his tablet and begins fiddling with plans for androids to maintain the transformers. He is still fiddling when they reach the airstrip, and continues to do so as they take off, well beyond the point when the flight levels out and they begin to coast. Stark may be irksome, but she can't help admiring his work ethic, and the genius which fuels it. Though he has no trouble switching back and forth between pithy banter—with JARVIS, mostly, but occasionally he will look up to make a comment to her about the shameful inefficiency of some program or another run by SHIELD—whenever he returns his attention to the tablet it is complete. Watching him work has a hypnotic effect.

For a while, anyway.

They have been in the air less than an hour when the hair on Natasha's arms stands on end. It takes her a second to realize that the sudden feeling of unease comes from an almost inaudible beeping which, until a moment ago, was not present. It takes her a second more to figure out that the sound seems to be coming from the cockpit. She stands.

"Bourbon on the rocks, thanks," says Stark without looking up.

"Not your assistant anymore, Stark."

"But you never know if there could be a career for you in the bartending business."

"I'm going to check something with the pilot. You stay put."

He shrugs and she makes her way toward the cockpit. That the beeping grows steadily louder as she nears confirms that it is not in her head, but it does not prepare her for what she sees when she walks into the cockpit.

She quickly identifies the source of the sound. It is the GPS, alerting the pilot to the fact that they have veered off of their pre-approved course. More concerning, however, is the fact that the pilot is not there to acknowledge the beeping. The seat—as well as the copilot's seat—is empty, no trace of either man to be seen. Natasha realizes that neither of them have said anything through the intercom the entirety of the flight, probably because they were never on it.

Which means that someone was able to get to the pilot without them noticing. Which means…

She crouches down, squinting through the cloud cover—the beginnings of another spring storm—just in time to see something black flash past the window.

It happens so fast Natasha doesn't have time to react. Just as she sees the drone flash past the window there is a burst of light and the plane lurches so violently she is thrown off her feet. A warning siren wails as she hauls herself up on the empty pilot's seat and pulls herself through the cockpit door, heart pounding and mouth dry, but by this time the wheels are in motion—the plane is jerking violently and the beeping has been replaced by a high-pitched warning siren which is telling them that a crash is imminent.

Stark is already on his feet, trying to make his way to the luggage rack at the front of the plane. The parachutes—the breathing apparatuses—and the Iron Man suit—all are stashed some four feet to Natasha's left.

"The suit!" he shouts, but before she can do anything by way of reply the drone fires a second round.

Natasha, still framed by the hallway leading to the cockpit, is able to brace herself enough to maintain her feet. Stark is not so lucky. He is thrown from the middle of the aisle into the side of the plane, where his head collides with one of the windows. He slides down the wall and is still, legs splayed, one arm wrapped awkwardly around the armrest of one of the chairs.

"Stark!"

Natasha's voice is barely audible over the roar of the plane as it descends, and the redundant wail of the siren. Stark doesn't stir, and she swears. The plane is beginning a slow but steady tilt forward, into a nosedive, and the force of gravity threatens to pull her to the front of the plane, back into the cockpit, but it is still level enough that she is able to haul herself over to the luggage rack using the backs of chairs. She reaches the parachutes and pulls one over her shoulders, fumbling with the straps before securing an oxygen mask—one of Stark's design, she realizes vaguely—over her face. Her heart is pounding, but her exterior is determinedly calm as she gathers the other parachute, oxygen mask, and the suitcase which transforms into one of the Iron Man suits. If she can rouse Stark she will have him don it—at the very least, she will ensure that he has a parachute and they can make the jump together. She prays that they are not over water.

But before she can do anything, a third explosion rips through the cabin.

She seizes the back of the nearest chair as a hole tears open on the opposite side of the plane, smoke and debris filling the cabin as they go into a full on tailspin. The air pressure is unbearable—the second parachute slips from her fingers and is sucked away along with the remaining smoke.

"Tony, damn it, wake up!"

There is a note of hysterics in her voice now, but with good reason. Now that the smoke is gone she can see that the hole in the cabin is a mere foot away from Tony Stark, and the only reason he has not yet been sucked into oblivion is because his arm is still hooked around the armrest. She works frantically to find a foothold to use against the overwhelming rush of air, to stabilize herself enough to make her way over to him, and the Iron Man suitcase slips from between her fingers.

As if in slow motion, it pelts toward the opening, and hits the still-unconscious Tony Stark squarely in the chest before disappearing into the rush of obscurity beyond the plane's interior. Though she cannot hear it over the rush, she can _see _it happen—Tony's arm breaks, slips out of the armrest, and he is gone.

Without another thought she propels herself away from the chairs and out of the plane.

For a brief second Natasha is whipped sideways and then she is falling, a tangle of limbs and hair swirling haphazardly through the mist. It takes her a terrifying moment to correct her own spin, and then another to locate Stark, his body a limp mass falling fast toward the earth below.

They have already broken the cloud cover, and the rushing ground rises fast to meet them, but Natasha steels herself against pulling the ripcord, instead flattening her arms to her sides, pressing her thighs together, and tilting herself toward Stark. She picks up speed—she is almost upon him, but the ground is rising too fast, she is going to be too late—in desperation her fingers reach out—and snag the back of his t-shirt.

It is enough. She uses the force of gravity to pull closer to him, until she is able to wrap an arm around his chest, and then she pulls the ripcord.

The force of the parachute deploying rips her backward, almost hard enough that she drops Stark—and _God_ he feels heavy in that moment, as if the weight of him will tear her arm from its socket—but by some miracle she holds on, long enough for the chute to carry them to the ground and thank God, thank God they are over land, relatively flat land surrounded by trees on all sides and thick with mud from recent rains but _land_ nonetheless. She waits until they are mere feet above the marshland before she drops Stark with a wet thud.

When her feet touch the ground she resists the urge to praise the heavens out loud, instead jogging to a halt and unclipping the chute with as much haste as she can before running back to Stark.

He is lying face down in the mud, unmoving. She hurries to turn him over, more concerned that he may drown in the mud than about any spinal injuries at the moment, and kneels beside him, her legs sinking deeply into the mud.

He does not stir.

"Stark." She fights the urge to shout, unsure of her surroundings and all too aware that she cannot—will not—check them before she is sure he is alive. "Stark, wake up."

She presses a finger under his nose and is relieved to feel a pulse of hot breath. There is a lump the size of a golf ball just under his hairline on the right side of his head where it hit the window, oozing blood, but before she can assess his other injuries, he groans.

"What…the…hell."

Natasha could die of happiness, something she never thought she would feel upon hearing that voice.

"Stark," she breathes, "you're alive."

"Oooooooowwwwwwwww."

Normally Natasha would shake her head at the long-suffering moan Stark utters as he attempts to lift his head, his eyes still closed, but this time she thinks it may be warranted, so instead she shuffles around to position her legs under his head, holding it gently with one hand on either side.

"Just lie still for a minute," she says, "I'm not sure of the extent of your injuries, and I don't know if—"

But before she can say another word, Stark makes a horrifying "hhhhnnnnnnngggg" sound and sits straight up.

"The suit," he gasps. "There could be more drones—where's the suit?"

Natasha directs her gaze upward, but the sky is paradoxically quiet, swirling with soft gray clouds.

"I don't think they're sending any more drones," she says. "Whoever sent them must think we're dead."

"The suit?"

"I'm sorry, it slipped out of my hand."

Much to her shock and abhorrence, Stark pushes himself to his feet.

"Stark!" She leaps to her feet beside him. "Sit down before you give yourself an aneurysm!"

But Stark merely whips around to face her, his eyes wide. Natasha grits her teeth together when she gets a full view of him: blood is crusted over one side of his face, and his arm—his right, the one that was wrapped around the armrest—is dangling uselessly from its socket, dislocated at the very least.

"I've got to find the suitcase," he says. "If whoever sent those drones get their hands on it, I swear I'll—"

"Bleed on them? Don't be stupid, Stark, we're going to contact SHIELD and tell them about the crash. _They_ will recover your suit. Now please, sit down!"

Stark blinks hard and leans toward her, as if he is having trouble focusing on her face.

"I'm not sitting down," he says, "I don't care how many of you there are."

And he sinks into her arms.

Natasha lowers him gently to the ground, where he slouches, breathing heavily.

"You're concussed, just sit still," she says. For the first time since they landed, she gets a good look at the surrounding area; they somehow managed to land in the only patch of land which is relatively free of trees within her immediate line of vision. It seems they are in a small clearing—on all sides there is nothing but pine trees and shrubbery, all in muted shades of green. Besides the discarded parachute, there is no sign of civilization in sight.

"Where are we?" Stark says, squinting at the gray sky.

Natasha, satisfied that he isn't going to keel over dead, busies herself with the backpack which once held the parachute. Aside from the chute, it also acts as an emergency pack, with a relatively small amount of water, some freeze dried food, a flashlight, and, most importantly, a pair of walkie talkies which double as satellite phones with a direct link to the nearest SHIELD headquarters in Washington state.

"I got a look at the GPS a few minutes before the crash, when the alarm went off to warn us we were off course. We were somewhere over Alaska, but we could be in Canada now. We don't exactly have a lot of distinguishing landmarks."

"God, I hope it's Alaska."

Natasha frowns. "I didn't take the great defender of the Earth for a xenophobe, Stark."

"Have you ever had poutine, Princess? Yeah, I don't think so." Stark makes to push himself up with his—relatively—uninjured arm, but falls back with a groan. He must have caught the grimace which appeared unbidden on her face as she watched him struggle, because he adds, "Sorry about the Princess comment. I'm guessing you prefer Tzarina."

She knows he is trying to distract her, and probably himself, from his injuries, but despite herself she rolls her eyes, feeling just a little but calmer for the first time since she walked into that empty cockpit. "Yes, Stark. I prefer Tzarina."

"I knew it."

Natasha has managed to disentangle one of the satellite phones. She flicks the switch, but the light which indicates the power is on does not come on, nor does the speaker make a sound.

"It's not working!"

For some reason, Stark frowns but does not look surprised. "My tablet died right before the drone fired. They may have used some sort of EMP to knock out our tech."

"Damn it!"

"Calm down!" Stark says. "Chances are they've already sent someone after us. We're just going to have to wait."

Natasha runs her hand through her hair, thinking that things must be out of hand if Tony Stark is the one being reasonable.

"We're at least an eight hour flight from the nearest SHIELD headquarters, so unless they have a plane available at one of our field locations in Canada …"

"It sounds like we may be here for the night." Stark nods. "We should probably huddle together. You know, for warmth."

But Natasha is too busy trying to gather her thoughts. They have more than enough water and food to last the night, but will that really be all they will have to wait? She had initially gone to check the pilot because the plane had been off course…would SHIELD still have their location, or were they too far off the charted flight by that point? And then, of course, is the issue of _who_ sent that drone. They are banking a little too hard on the hope that their attackers will assume they are dead, at least for Natasha's liking. She would feel more comfortable if they could at the very least get to the edge of the crash radius, an area which she is sure Stark will be able to calculate, and then she may feel safe enough to send out a distress signal.

She crouches beside Stark and pulls a flashlight from her backpack. Though it is still afternoon, the gray clouds overhead have dimmed the sun, so she clicks the light on and peers into his face.

"You're definitely concussed," she said. "But you were out for less than a minute. Do you know the date?"

"Not generally," he says, squinting and trying to cover his eyes with his good arm. "Can you get that thing out of my face?"

She clicks the flashlight off, wanting to conserve the battery anyway. "We have to move outside of the perimeter of the plane debris, and then I can set a signal fire. Do you think you can walk?"

"I'm a little lopsided at the moment," he says, indicating his lifeless right arm. Natasha has been so caught up that this is the first time she has realized how much pain Stark must be in. He is hiding it well, so well she wonders whether he might be in shock, or if perhaps he has simply grown accustomed to injuries. All of them do, to some extent, but she and Hawkeye are trained to handle pain, and it's not as if Stark is a demigod or some variation of a genetic experiment. She figures it must be at least partially a reflex. People depend on heroes like Tony Stark—like herself, she supposes, though she would never call herself that—and seeing them in pain is disheartening.

Nevertheless, she knows that just because he doesn't _complain_ about the pain doesn't mean it isn't there. So she grits her teeth and tries to be as gentle as possible as she probes the swollen tissue where his shoulder meets his upper arm.

"Gently, please," he groans.

"I don't think it's broken," she says. "I might have to try to set it. It's…going to hurt."

Stark, already pale, goes a few shades whiter, but he nods and gropes along the ground until he finds a relatively clean stick, which he clamps in between his teeth.

"All right," she says. "Take a deep breath."

But she has barely lifted his arm when he lets out a cry, drops the stick, and grabs her arm with his free hand.

"Stop," he gasps. "Stop. Stop."

Natasha, frowning, falls back.

"Stark—"

"Sorry." His breathing is suddenly heavy, and if she thought he had been pale before, it is nothing to the gray-green his face is turning now. Whatever stoicism he was showing before, she has jostled it out of him by attempting to manipulate his arm. "I think—I think something may be wrong with my chest."

"The arc reactor?"

He shakes his head. "The side. Under my arm. Just—be gentle."

She nods, and he closes his eyes as she once again lifts his arm, just a few inches, enough to see his right side. She stifles a gasp.

His side is peppered with jagged holes—at least fifteen of them—shrapnel, from where the plane exploded beside him. They are not bleeding heavily, which explains why neither of them noticed them under his black shirt and all of the dirt on top of them—but it is clear that shards of metal are embedded under his skin, some of them glinting visibly, others deeply buried under dark, partially coagulated blood.

"All right Princess," says Stark. "Give it to me straight. Just how bad is it?"

"Mr. Stark," she says, "we may have to adjust our plan of action."


End file.
